Former, from those days that bred apartheid;
when men weren’t men, but animals, for work;
it bred in them the making of a state
but drove Mandela quietly berserk.
It’s our turn for the task. We mustn’t shirk.

Nowadays, though, the tourist buses roam
with passengers on guided tours to see
its Freedom Square; and Desmond Tutu’s home;
the birthplace of Mandela’s legacy...

Six days. Our absence underlines a flow.
Knitting heroes shame us with their crop
of squares and hats and vests. They let us know
the orphans aren’t forgotten. Though a drop
in all the need, it simply cannot stop.

Palm Sunday. A volunteer’s invited
our family to her church in Soweto.
Our youngsters, at first, aren’t quite delighted.
We apply a firm but gentle veto,...

Once more westward. Johannesburg returns.
There is where the real job must begin,
with no apparent end. My conscience burns.
Vacation first, then work? Is that a sin?
Is duty always pleasure’s doleful twin?

And then it comes; and though you’ve heard before,
the shock of nearness echoes in your chest—
the ultimate percussion. Lions roar,
of course they do, but not so they arrest
your heart. Courage is rapidly undressed.